


mixtape (a life in your shape)

by lowblow



Category: TOMORROW X TOGETHER | TXT (Korea Band)
Genre: Bodyswap, Enemies to Lovers, Getting Back Together, Light Angst, M/M, Pining, Urban Fantasy, influencer!beomgyu, soobin is barely in this but you can bet i describe his hands
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-02
Updated: 2020-12-02
Packaged: 2021-03-09 19:41:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,652
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27821668
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lowblow/pseuds/lowblow
Summary: Beomgyu wakes up on Friday morning feeling a little off. An understatement, as it turns out, because he wakes up as Choi Yeonjun.ThatChoi Yeonjun.A kiss for a curse, isn't that how the story goes?
Relationships: Choi Beomgyu/Choi Yeonjun
Comments: 14
Kudos: 219





	mixtape (a life in your shape)

**Author's Note:**

> an extremely belated birthday present for hina, who commissioned art for this fic even before it existed

_**[1]** let’s be friends _

_Kang’s Clinic and Consultancy for the Unseen Arts,_ reads the sign above the door. The location isn’t any more promising than the name — sandwiched between a greasy little delicatessen and an ATM in a tumbleweed-infested strip mall he’d spent a hot second trying to pinpoint on google maps. Normally, Beomgyu wouldn’t be seen dead here. 

Lucky him, then.

“What are you _wearing?”_ Yeonjun hisses when he manages to fold his frame onto the tiny wicker pouffe, unused to the long legs. “I have a reputation to uphold.”

“Your reputation as what, a slut? Why are all your jeans so _tight_.” It’s payback for earlier, and really, Yeonjun should be grateful he didn’t do worse. He pushes up the sweetheart shades he’d snagged on the way, blinking until his eyes adjust to the parlor's unnatural gloom. A low seven. Terrible lighting, but the crystals lining the shelves behind them might make for a nice pop of colour on his feed. 

Yeonjun smiles, tight and close-lipped. “New plan. You let me kill him now, help mop up the blood, and then never speak of it again. I leave a glowing review on the website, five stars. Win-win.” 

“I think I see what the problem is,” says Kang, presumably. The plaque beside his folded hands says 'Dr. Kang Taehyun, Ph.D.' in four languages, half of which Beomgyu doesn't recognize. He seems far too young to be a doctor.

"Delighted to hear it!" Beomgyu mirrors his pose, one palm over the other on the plush velvet tablecloth. It feels expensive. Hopefully, that means business is good, and that it's good because Dr. Kang Taehyun, Ph.D., is prolific at his craft rather than at duping gullible patrons. He guesses the truth is a mixture of both. "I'm tired of scaring myself shitless whenever I glance at a mirror." 

" _Please_ let me kill him. I have money."

“Well, I have a scheduled live tonight,” Beomgyu sniffs. “My subscribers are waiting.”

“I’m sure your subscribers will survive an hour without you.” Beomgyu's aware his eyerolls are scathing, but being on the other side of one is something else.

Still, he was waiting for this. “Oh, you would know, wouldn't you, since you’re one of th—”

Dr. Kang clears his throat, rapping on the table to get their attention. “Gentlemen, what exactly is it that you hope to achieve from today’s appointment?”

Yeonjun and Beomgyu share a look. One would think it was obvious.

“My rockin’ bod back, to start.”

“My cut jawline,” says Beomgyu, not to be outdone. It works, and Yeonjun bristles.

“My height.” 

“Hands that aren’t freakishly disproportionate to said height. Look at these fingers, they’re, like, tiny.”

“Well,” Yeonjun’s tone is innocent, his words anything but. Above all, it's the audacity, the _audacity_ , Beomgyu thinks, of someone batting _his own_ eyelashes at him. “No one really notices the size of my hands once they’ve seen—” 

“Hyung,” says Dr. Kang dryly, and oh, Beomgyu wasn’t aware they were that close. At least, that made this marginally less embarrassing, as well as a reduced chance of their case being leaked online. 

“Sorry Taehyun-ah,” Yeonjun leans back, not sounding sorry at all. “So? Can you do it or not?” 

“Reverse this? Hard to say, at the moment.” Taehyun procures a little pouch from nowhere, emptying it onto a tray. Iridescent blue sand spills out from the leather, forming swirling shapes that Beomgyu has a sneaking suspicion are just for show. “I _will_ say that this is fascinating. I've never seen anything like it.”

"Watch _Freaky Friday_ ," says Beomgyu, inspecting his nails. They're trimmed short and painted clear. Yeonjun’d always been a hardass for personal hygiene like that. "It's not as good as the one where she plays twins, though.”

They both ignore him, watching Taehyun trail a finger through his sand. “Before I ask how, I need to know why.”

“Does he always speak in riddles?” sighs Beomgyu.

Taehyun’s eyes seem to reflect non-existent light behind his glasses, swirling like Beomgyu’s morning cup of cafe con leche. “ _Why_ is the most important question. Why this, why you two? What's so special about your relationship? Without knowing all of that, I can't proceed.”

Even Yeonjun shifts in place, suddenly uncomfortable. Beomgyu rolls his eyes, readjusting the feather boa around his neck. “So what you're saying is, you don't know shit and this was a waste of a bus fare.”

Taehyun smiles graciously, revealing canines almost too sharp to be human.

“For what it’s worth, Beomgyu-ssi, I can understand why someone would want to curse you.”

  
  


Beomgyu had woken up on Friday morning feeling a little off. An understatement, as it were, because he’d woken up as Choi Yeonjun.

Which was… far from ideal. It was frightening for one, and a bitch of an inconvenience. Unprecedented however? Not wholly. 

Beomgyu is beautiful and talented, a “self-made internet phenomenon”, as his mother liked to gush to relatives over the phone. People tell him so all the time, in the hundreds of comments he scrolls through at the kitchen counter of his east-facing 3LDK every morning, one eye still crusty with sleep. With the praise came envy, of course, and there was always the occasional malicious remark in the sea of hearts. He dislikes the word _enemies_ — there’s an intimacy to it that he doesn’t feel these anonymous trolls deserve. Haters, that’s all they are. And Beomgyu has more than a few.

Curses had briefly crossed his mind. Who knew what the kids got up to these days? Witchcraft was more accessible than ever — all it took was a comprehensive online course, some sage and a persistent individual with too much time on their hands, right? Beomgyu doesn’t know the realm of overlap of powerful occult forces and people who harbour a grudge against him, but the fact that it exists at all is hardly a comforting thought. 

But when all is said and done: it could be worse! It could be much worse. 

Truth be told, when Beomgyu had woken up on Friday morning in Choi Yeonjun’s bed, his first dazed, hysterical thought had been _fuck, not again_.

He'd been having a pleasant dream, one where that record deal finally pulled through and his songs were set to be released on glossy matte-finish albums, ready for pre-order. Soundcloud star who?

The raucous applause in his mind morphed into insistent knocking. Someone very badly wanted him to open a door, even though everyone who was anyone knew Beomgyu _needed_ his ten hours— 

“Ya! Yeonjunie,” said a rough, irritated voice, “Did you oversleep? Bastard, after I came all this way—”

Beomgyu'd shot awake. A graphic print of two cats in the style of Klimt's kiss stared down at him from the ceiling, confirming the worst. This wasn't his room. The air felt crisp and electric, the calm before a storm. Fucking hell.

He'd yanked the door open covered in naught but a sheet. This was rock bottom, the one place he’d vowed never to revisit. Naked, in Yeonjun’s apartment, with little to no memory of the previous night. And now some small roommate or friend or acquaintance or lover was going to be privy to his walk of shame. He had half a mind to just fling himself out of Yeonjun's tasteful bay windows and onto the street below — his bones might shatter but at the very least, he'd have his pride.

“Fucking finally.” He’d looked down (and down) at a camera lens, and the man behind it. The red light near the shutter winked, indicating that it was on. “Everyone else’s at the site already. Let’s go.”

 _That better not be filming_ , Beomgyu’d said about the canon pro, and then squeaked, nearly dropping his sheet in shock when the voice that came out wasn’t his own.

Changbin — Beomgyu doesn’t remember how he knew the name — only snorted. “I’ll cut it in editing later. Nothing I haven’t seen before. Get dressed, you have ten."

 _Huh,_ he thought, _that's kind of odd_. As hot as Changbin may be, in a grumpy bulldog kind of way, he wasn't exactly Beomgyu's type. That, coupled with how unphased he was to see Beomgyu despite them never having met before, tipped him off that something, _something_ was wrong here.

Choi Yeonjun liked the way he looked, so it made sense that he owned a six-foot high floor mirror, poised to catch golden hour in all its glory. It was cleverly placed in a way that Yeonjun’d be able to see himself no matter where he stood in the room.

Beomgyu learned this firsthand, jerking forward to clutch the door frame for support. In the reflection, his fingers flexed on wood, segueing into toned arms, tanned skin and cherry-blossom pink hair. There was a tattoo on his left shoulder — a geometric bird caught in flight. Choi Yeonjun blinked when Beomgyu blinked and when Beomgyu bit his lip, hard, so did he.

Ah. Well, _fuck._

“I’m not going,” He said weakly. He traced the ink from beak to outstretched wing — it was still sensitive. Must be fresh. “Whatever the— the thing is. Could you reschedule, please?”

Changbin’s eyes narrowed in suspicion, widening again in worry when they didn't find any tricks. “Yeonjun, you okay, man?”

“Feel kind of weird,” said Beomgyu, searching for a phone. “Not quite myself. You understand.”

  
  


_**[2]** pain pain go away _

  
  


From the second they'd set foot in the same room, Yeonjun had started grating on his nerves like he was made of sandpaper and determined to prove it.

“You look great,” had been his opening salute, an arm slung over the back of a beige chesterfield. They were meeting in the restobar of the hotel Beomgyu'd been checked in for the night: neutral ground. “Better than I’ve ever seen you.”

“Hilarious.” Yeonjun had done something unspeakable to his hair; too much product, too much tease. It wasn’t like Beomgyu was self-conscious of his forehead, but there was such a thing as restraint. As if that wasn’t enough, he was _manspreading_ , in broad daylight. He wrinkles his nose — well, Yeonjun’s nose — in disdain. Choi Beomgyu, a manspreader. What would people say?

“It’s been a minute, Beomgyu-yah.”

“Don’t call me that.”

“ _Angel313,_ ” says Yeonjun, enunciating Beomgyu’s very first screen name with unnecessary relish. He’d switched to something more professional once he’d gotten his little blue verified tick, but apparently it was hard to escape one’s humiliating past. That was true of a lot of things. 

Beomgyu grinds his teeth. Remembers to crack his knuckles in the way he knows Yeonjun loathes. 

“So?” He prompts. This was just a bug, that’s what he had to keep telling himself. This was just a bug he needed to get sorted, and then they could go their separate ways, with Beomgyu having nothing to do with Yeonjun and vice versa.

“So,” Yeonjun says pleasantly, but they’re interrupted by a waiter with tea and a basket of fried shrimp. “Oh right, I hope you don’t mind. I took the liberty of ordering for us.” He flashes a shiny black card, the _Choi Beomgyu_ in neat english caps catching the light. Beomgyu decides he wants to squash _him_ like a bug. It was finally plausible too, now that he has Yeonjun’s superhuman strength. 

But that wouldn't do, he needed his body back. Beomgyu was expensive merchandise. He leans forward on his elbows, willing the headache away. 

"Yeonjun, listen carefully," he says, no honorifics, no hyung _._ "When's the last time you remember being _you_?"

Last night was a blur, but it was coming back in snatches of sound and colour. Yeonjun fills in the gaps. There had been a networking party of some kind, come-as-you-are, which of course meant everyone was dressed to the nines. A place called the Vault, very hip and happening with its trendy USP of locking people in after midnight unless they hit the minimum bill. 

The drinks themselves were of the photogenic kind, because what was the point of a social event with social weight if you couldn't flex it on social media. But even then, Beomgyu had found the test tubes a little gauche, somewhere in between screaming with laughter and getting absolutely shit-faced.

He hadn't been planning on it. The _plan_ had been to corner the editor-in-chief of _Urban Beat_ and use his irresistible wit and charm to land an interview for their next issue, possibly a two page spread. Beomgyu was serious about music, but no one was going to take _him_ seriously until he proved he was more than just another pretty face that said things like _this video was made possible by Function of Beauty_ and _thanks a bunch, don't forget to like and subscribe!_ Fleeting, forgettable. His agent had made that very clear.

So yeah, he’d had an agenda. But the agenda hadn’t accounted for Choi Yeonjun to climb through the Vault's circular iron door looking like a Brokeback Mountain expy, complete with hat and boots. Things had kind of gone downhill from there. 

The way Yeonjun told it, he'd been the talk of the club and possibly the town, too. Better than any publicity he'd get from _Urban Beat._

"It was amazing, Beomgyu-yah," he says brightly. "You worked that pole like you'd been doing it all your life. Hyung was very impressed.” 

  
  
  


The two of them — you could say they went back. 

Shindong Middle had a clear pecking order, and Choi Yeonjun was at the top.

He was popular: dance club captain, student council member, and though he never made first string in all his three years on the basketball team, he was well-liked and respected enough that no one gave him shit for it.

 _(You're the new kid, right?_ _Come sit with us.)_

Beomgyu was somewhere in the middle of the pack. Logically speaking, the band should've made him cool by association, but Ryujin and Jaeyun spent all their time arguing very loudly about nerdy crap like Van Halen and "finding their sound" _._ People tended to give them a wide berth.

So when Yeonjun swung by his class one afternoon and said _I have tickets to the fair,_ he'd felt only irritation. Third period was about to begin, and here Yeonjun was, risking the wrath of the second-year homeroom teacher just to brag about a date. 

"That's nice, hyung." 

"We should go," he added, grunting with the effort of leaning through the sliding window. Beomgyu'd just blinked, certain he'd misheard.

He'd given the room a quick 360: from the kids messing around with the projector, to Ryujin snoring at her desk, to the group of girls stealing glances at them from the back — no doubt wondering what business Choi Yeonjun, _that_ Choi Yeonjun, could have with Beomgyu. It was strange to him too. Usually, _Beomgyu_ was the one hanging around Yeonjun's class waiting for him, not the other way around.

"What, together? You and me?"

That earned him a flick on the forehead. "You see anyone else here? I can always take Toto, if you're too busy—"

"I'm not!" said Beomgyu, and then cursed himself for how eager he sounded. But he's fifteen — eager is all he knows. 

Yeonjun beamed. "Cool! Meet me at the bus stop at six. And remember to layer, it'll be cold." 

_Why me, though,_ Beomgyu'd been about to ask, _you couldn't find a nice noona from club to go with you?_ But Mrs. Lee had barked _Choi Yeonjun_ , and he'd sworn under his breath, flying away and up the stairs in a whirlwind of cheerful apologies and hand kisses. Beomgyu pretended to catch one, just to imagine what it would feel like to own.

Ryujin stirred, yawning wide before regarding him with bleary eyes. "Yah, Choi Beomgyu… you're all red. You have a fever or something?"

Beomgyu had ducked down, feeling his warm cheeks. That was a word for it.

  
  


_**[3]** instagram _

Yeonjun’s apartment was the safest place to stay, for the time being. He'd swung by home for the bare necessities — his toothbrush _(I can use yours, stupid, my teeth are your teeth_ , but Yeonjun had insisted that was disgusting), a couple of pillows (Beomgyu needed multiple to fall asleep), his guitar, on the off-chance something about this waking nightmare got the creative juices flowing, and of course, his laptop, for work. Yeonjun had his own camera, it would have to do.

 _Work_ , Yeonjun scoffed, leaning against the doorway as Beomgyu hunted for a power socket. _Posting pretty pictures._

“You think I’m pretty?” Beomgyu purred. Hypocritical of Yeonjun to act like he didn’t care about the aesthetics of his own feed. The way he’d been phasing in the beiges and browns for fall wasn’t subtle, please. Not the Beomgyu would know. In fact, as of this moment, he decides he doesn’t.

"Come here," he orders, unzipping his makeup kit. It's Rikkulma patterned. Yeonjun eyes the mascara wand in his hand warily, settling opposite Beomgyu at the wooden dining table for two.

"What's this about—" 

"I have a live show, remember?" Beomgyu tells him, getting to work, “Can't let insignificant shit like _not being in my body_ get in the way." Today was supposed to have been important. He’d been planning to give a preview of a new song he’d written, and casually transition into talking about upcoming projects to generate interest, that sort of thing. But that would all have to wait. Yeonjun was not what one would call musically inclined.

He looks aggrieved. "You want _me_ to be _choibeom_? Come on."

"Luckily, you’re blessed with my stunning visuals. Just act natural, laugh and smile a lot. If you’re responding to comments, be brief.” 

“Voluntary silence?” Yeonjun sighs dramatically. “No one’ll buy that from you.”

"Yeonjunie-hyung," Beomgyu says, startling Yeonjun into looking at him. He leans in across the tiny space between them, "You know, I've thought this before, but—" 

"What?" Yeonjun's eyes are all wide, Beomgyu’s gel-thick lashes brushing his browbone. 

"I really am handsome, huh? Like, a serious looker. A national treasure, some might say." 

The answering scowl is incredibly satisfying. 

"Look, I'll prompt from behind the screen, alright? You know how this goes. It's totally, _totally_ not a big deal." 

“I’m still not sure…” Yeonjun says lightly, and Beomgyu can hear the insult coming a mile away. “Pretending to be someone I’m not for views? Seems more like your thing.”

 _What’s that supposed to mean_ is instinctively on the tip of his tongue, but the truth is, of course he knows. He isn’t ashamed, though. If the personable, curated character that his subscribers saw was a means to an end, a gateway to more opportunities, then he’ll gladly put up with him, and more. Shit like _oh, you’re different than I imagined,_ or _you’ve changed_ , that was inevitable, but he wasn’t about to take it from Yeonjun, of all people. They didn’t know each other like that anymore. 

“Ow, _careful_ ,” Yeonjun yelps when he’s just a little too vicious with the concealer. “Beomgyu-ssi’s face is a national treasure, remember?”

  
  
  


After the live, they walk to Soobin’s restaurant for dinner. Well, the restaurant where Soobin works shifts, anyway, because he’s a twenty-something in grad school with a hobby that requires he eat out four times a week. It was a nice place, once that Beomgyu’s eomma would call _quaint_. The ambience had endeared him to it before the food itself — the open-air seating, the playlist looping Vivaldi, something right out of _Cafe Terrace at Night_. They made for good photos. A hard nine.

The reason they were here was that he needed to tell Soobin he wouldn’t be coming home for a while. They’d known each other three-quarters of a decade, from obnoxious high-schoolers to sleep-deprived college roommates, sharing a cramped floor with thirty other people who didn’t always believe in showers. Then the influencer work had taken off, covering the damage from their failed attempts at cooking, and the deposit for a much nicer apartment in the city. 

Soobin makes sure Beomgyu eats his vegetables, holds his camera, spoons him when he’s feeling low. There isn’t a chance in hell of Yeonjun tricking him into believing he’s Beomgyu. He’d see through them in seconds.

Perhaps a little longer, maybe even the duration of a meal, is what he’s banking on when he settles into a table by the window, pressing the brass service bell twice.

“You rang, bitchboy?” Soobin’s wearing his cherry-red work apron to match the cherry-red chequered tablecloth, armed with a pen because the owner of the establishment was that old-fashioned breed that refused to go digital. Beomgyu bites his tongue, hard. His answering affectionate insult had been halfway out before he’d remembered Soobin hadn’t been talking to _him._ He’d almost forgotten.

Soobin does his best to keep a neutral expression, but it’s obvious from the way the grease-stained notepad crinkles in his grip that he’s vibrating out of his skin with curiosity. Beomgyu can almost see the gears in his brain turning as he workshops cryptic tweets in real-time: _@soobplates: evening shift is usually a drag but whatever @choibeom has going on just spiced things up:3c_

Beomgyu tries to put himself in Soobin’s shoes (a challenge, seeing as he’s already spread thin, shoe-wise): Here was his best friend, out for dinner with the boy he’d spent the better part of the last five years denouncing. Seemingly civil, bordering on chummy. _Maybe more_. Beomgyu had to admit it didn’t look good. He'd ditched the too-tight jeans for pressed slacks. There's even a glass candle on the table, inexcusably romantic.

He has to fix this — his reputation is on the line. Yeonjun’s, however? Expendable. 

“You must be Soobin!” He says, voice two octaves lower than Yeonjun’s usual range and with twice as much syrup. “I've seen you cameo in Beomgyu's vlogs. Though I have to say—,” he winks salaciously, biting down on Yeonjun’s plump lower lip, “you’re _much_ better looking in real life.”

Yeonjun kicks him under the table, but it’s worth it. Beomgyu smiles through the pain. It ought to be enough for Soobin, for now — surely, not even Choi Yeonjun of _POV: I'm Your College Boyfriend_ tiktok fame would flirt with the waitstaff mid-date. 

(What ticks Beomgyu off is how Soobin reacts — averting his eyes, thumbing at the shell of a rosy ear. He’s flustered. And that’s annoying, because. Because this is Choi Yeonjun, for fuck’s fucking sake. Beomgyu as Yeonjun, but Yeonjun nevertheless. Could Soobin _please_ pull it together?)

"I’m familiar," Soobin nods politely. Not quite a bow, which pleases Beomgyu. Loyalty came first, after all. Then Soobin fidgets in place. He could've stopped there, and knowing Soobin, normally he _would've_ stopped there, but for some reason, today of all days, he chooses to bite the inside of his cheek, and grins when he says, "Beomgyu here talks about you _all_ the—"

"Ahaha!" Beomgyu barks, slamming his hands down on the table, mortified. So much for loyalty. "Beomgyu-ssi! Don't you have something to tell your friend?" 

_**[4]** 1, 2 _

"Sorry, but _what_ could be so important that you're blowing off practice?" Jaeyun was gentle and easy-going by design, except in matters concerning the band. Beomgyu understood, he really did. If their roles were reversed, he'd have been pissed too. And yet, he stood his ground. 

"Something came up," Beomgyu didn't meet his eye, being purposely vague. Saying it out loud was confirmation.

"We made a commitment when we started, man, this isn't—" 

Ryujin popped her gum, stretching. "Lay off him, he has a date." She smirked. "To _the_ _fair_."

Jaeyun's eyebrows jumped. Beomgyu contemplated strapping her to a trebuchet and aiming for Jeju.

"It's not a date." 

"'Course not. No one said it was." Ryujin snapped open a hand mirror, checking her reflection. "Could I borrow your chapstick? My lips are dry as hell."

Beomgyu wordlessly passed over the little tube, colouring with shame as Jaeyun's mouth continued its stunning impression of a deep-sea coral on National Geographic; opening and closing to no avail. 

The fair that was held in the uncultivated farmland at the outskirts of their town every October was an extravagant thing — rides and games, photo booths, food on sticks. A lot of indie bands booked their first paid gig there, a fact Jaeyun never let them forget. Stall registrations started a year in advance, and tickets sold out in minutes. It was popular, and therefore (or perhaps because), it was also notorious for being a hotspot of young love.

As if being huddled together with smoked caramel apples against the backdrop of an undiscovered hopeful crooning about autumn rain wasn’t enough, the whole affair came swathed in legend, too. Beomgyu wasn't superstitious by a stretch, but he _was_ a romantic at heart. It was hard to ignore the story, the one about couples who kissed at the top of the ferris wheel.

There was some debate on the specifics — one school of thought believed it meant they'd be soulmates, another said it guaranteed a long and happy future together. His brother's old girlfriend had whispered _marriage_ as they’d done warm-up stretches for PE, which Beomgyu found funny, seeing as she'd dumped him for a sunbae the day before they’d been set to go. 

Whatever the lore was, everyone went to try their luck. It was the most coveted date spot of the year, which was part of why tickets were so hard to come by. 

Not that Beomgyu was keeping track, but Yeonjun had been thrice already. Must've never gotten a kiss though, because it was always with someone new. 

"It's not a date," he said again, but remembered to take back his chapstick, just in case.

  
  
  


They end up having to repeat their cover story twice. Soobin’s face is a piece of stretched-out taffy, his eyebrows getting higher and higher as his lips curl downward in a disbelieving pout. "Come again?"

"We've been planning this collab for months," says Yeonjun, casual as ever. Turns out he _can_ lie, when he has Beomgyu's poker face to aid him.

"You never said." Soobin glares holes into Yeonjun's head, and Beomgyu is instantly glad that he isn't on the receiving end. Soobin's bursts of rage are few and far in-between, but harbouring juicy gossip was the penultimate crime, right below stingy dessert portions. Beomgyu's going to be grilled for _weeks_ after this. “And you _have_ to stay over?”

"It'll only be for a couple of days, hyung.” Here's hoping. 

Soobin's head swivels to Beomgyu and he flinches, realizing his error a second too late. "I'm pretty sure you're older than me, Yeonjun-ssi."

"On the outside, perhaps," says Beomgyu. "I have a young soul."

"Our order," Yeonjun says, swiftly changing the topic. Probably for the best. 

His usual drink-dessert combination is on the tip of his tongue when it strikes him — apple crumble and grapefruitade is Choi Beomgyu’s comfort meal. Not Yeonjun’s. It bums him out a little. He could’ve done with some comfort tonight. Oh well, he could always get— 

“The crumble, please, Soobin-ah.” says Yeonjun. He throws Soobin a smile and a peace sign. Soobin sighs, letting the lack of honorific slide. “And to drink—?”

“Grapefruitade, if you have it. No ice.”

“Gotcha. What about you, Yeonjun-ssi?”

Beomgyu swallows the stickiness in his throat. He doesn’t ask how Yeonjun knows his order, right down to the preference. Instead he says,

“Galbi-jjim. A bottle of Asahi.”

The weight of Yeonjun’s gaze is a tangible thing. 

“Um.” Soobin wavers. He clears his throat, enunciating clearly like when speaking to a small child, “This is an _Italian restaurant_ , Yeonjun-ssi. I mean, we have a continental menu too but that’s only for breakfast—”

Beomgyu doesn't hear him. His fingers are tracing little patterns in the tablecloth. Birds. Stars. The hanja for galbi. 

“—and we don’t serve alcohol. But there’s a BBQ down the street that’s heaps cheaper than this place, though you didn’t hear it from me. Four chef hats on my blog. The ahjuma'll give you bigger portions if you're cute. Um.”

“He’ll have the spinach ravioli.” Yeonjun says, “Thanks.”

When the dinner rush ends up whisking Soobin away, Beomgyu almost misses him. Having to put on a performance would be better than the silence that settles between them — flickering like the little glass candle, alight with everything unsaid.

_**[5]** scent_

“I’m sorry,” Yeonjun mumbled into his ear. “I didn’t know,”

Beomgyu giggled, climbing halfway into his lap. Some distant, floaty part of him put forward the theory that he’d possibly had too much to drink, or smoked something he shouldn’t have. The rest of him promptly dispelled the thought. That was unproductive thinking, that. Didn’t serve the agenda.

It was a Halloween thingy. He was slutty Peter Pan, and Yeonjun, some leather-clad catwoman-aligned superhero, or something. They’d both come with other people, and Choi Yeonjun was bad news, but in that moment Beomgyu couldn’t care less about anything other than how he’s cold and Yeonjun is warm, which meant they had to stick together like gummy bears, as close as possible, no matter what. 

“Well, actually—” Yeonjun amended, but Beomgyu was too entranced with the way his lips moved to pay attention. His hand reached out in slow motion to touch them, soft and gummy, gummy bear. Beomgyu loved gummy bears. He wondered if Yeonjun tasted like them too, sweet and sticky. “I think I knew but I—but— shit, I forgot what I was going to say.”

“That’s okay, I forgive you.” said Beomgyu.

“You’re really pretty,” Yeonjun sounded out of it too, perhaps more so. “I’ve always thought.”

“Thanks, you’re pretty too. I think we look like— _like_ — a pair? Hell, what’s the word. A couple. Like a couple.”

“Oh no,” said Yeonjun, but he’s kissing Beomgyu’s neck, which couldn’t mean anything too bad right?

“ _Oh_ — Oh no?”

“I don’t think I like that stuff.” Yeonjun turns it over for a moment. “Couples and all that.”

“Oh no.” Beomgyu confirmed.

Yeonjun pulled away, and Beomgyu wanted to take it back instantly.

“But I feel like— like I wouldn’t mind if it was you?”

“That’s great. That’s fucking awesome, hyung.” said Beomgyu. “Can you keep kissing me now? Please?”

Yeonjun’s face was stupid fond for the situation at hand. His pupils were dilated, dark mini-galaxies. “You haven’t called me that in a while. I missed it.” And then, “Wanna get out of here?”  
  
  


"You can take the bed."

"What a gentleman," Beomgyu snorts, kicking off his shoes. Yeonjun's apartment doesn't have that unfamiliar, foreign smell anymore, which probably meant he's gotten used to it. Annoying.

Yeonjun rolls his eyes. "Don't misunderstand. I just don't want a crick in my neck from sleeping on the couch when we finally switch back." His bed is definitely big enough for two.

"Well, alright. You _are_ getting on in your years, after all," says Beomgyu, infinitely grateful for an opportunity to dispel the weird mood from before. 

Yeonjun doesn’t comment on the jab, wordlessly collecting a spare change of clothes for his shower. He picks one of his own t-shirts, which Beomgyu can already tell will be loose at the shoulders. The thought makes him feel uncomfortably warm, reminding him of an early morning, crisp air, a sweater pooling around his wrists. He catches sight of his own reflection in the mirror, sucking in a breath. Choi Yeonjun is so handsome, still. Lethal and arresting — he can’t look away.

But he does. Away, at the floor, at his guitar in the corner of the room.

Yeonjun’s halfway out the door when he pauses and doubles back, biting his lip.

"Hey, maybe we _should_ try what Taehyunnie said."

Beomgyu _knows_ he misheard. He busies himself with his phone, keeping his eyes trained on the screen without really comprehending anything. “Hm, sorry, but I don’t really trust your psychic friend. _Dr._ Kang? Is he even a real healthcare professional?”

“ _Doctor_ doesn’t mean— listen, it’s worth a shot, right? What do we have to lose?”

Beomgyu closes his eyes, tamping down on just how much he wants to scream. _Of course_ it would mean nothing to Yeonjun. Of course. _What do we have to lose._

But he doesn’t have an excuse, not one where he doesn’t come out looking pathetic. And so he says, “Alright. Let’s get this over with.” 

The best possible outcome is that he gets his body back. And the worst? Well. It doesn’t matter. There are more pressing things at hand than who they once were or what he used to feel.

The tension in the room is static, too many electrons in one place. Yeonjun seems unphased, but as gets closer, his left eye begins to twitch. Soobin had once pointed that out as Beomgyu’s nervous tick. The thought makes him feel a little better.

He closes his eyes. Steps forward.   
  


**_[6]_ ** _i don’t miss you at all_

Beomgyu pulled the duvet tighter around him, shivering. He felt like death and wished it too. 

_So it really was a fever_ , Ryujin had said sympathetically over the phone. Of fucking course it was, the world had decreed that Beomgyu couldn’t have good things in life. He sniffled, not just from the cold.

“Beomgyu-yah? Are you awake?” his mother knocked twice, a suspiciously out-of-character move. She didn’t usually offer him that courtesy before barging in, which must mean they had company. Beomgyu felt sick all over again. He couldn’t. Not now, not like this.

Yeonjun entered alone, holding a tray with two steaming cups. 

“Drink up,” he said, whirling Beomgyu’s computer chair around with his ankle. The cups wobbled slightly, but nothing spilled. Yeonjun always had incredible control. “Eomoni made yuju-cha.” 

Beomgyu pulled the covers over his head so he didn't have to look at him. He _couldn’t_ look at him. His fever had subsided a little, but it still felt like there were hot bricks on his shoulder — regret, anger and shame, all stacked together like jenga, and if Yeonjun said one wrong thing, looked at Beomgyu with just the slightest hint of resentment, it was all going to come crashing down in an avalanche of snot and tears. Wouldn’t that just be the cherry on the cake? Making a mess of himself in front of Yeonjun. 

“What are you sulking about?” Yeonjun’s socked foot nudged Beomgyu’s side. “It’s just a fever, you big baby. You didn’t even touch 101. Last year I came down with a 103 the day before a big recital, and let me tell you, _that_ was some deep shit. Ssaem didn’t even let me—”

“Hyuuung,” Beomgyu whined, unable to help himself. Around Yeonjun, Beomgyu tried his damnedest to be cool, to be grown, but right now his defenses were weak, his body was weak, and his heart was weak weak weak and he _just—_ just felt like a small child on the verge of a supermarket meltdown, about to burst into tears because they didn’t get their way. 

“I’m sorry,” he said finally, more to his pillow than to Yeonjun. “After you invited me and all—”

Yeonjun’s fingers twitched, but he didn't try to flick Beomgyu’s forehead again. Instead, he sighed noisily, the single sound somehow encapsulating just how much he wanted to. 

“I _knew_ you’d make a scene.” His warm fingers wrapped around Beomgyu’s ankle, giving it a light squeeze. The touch burned. “Just forget about it, ‘kay? Your health comes first.”

Beomgyu sniffled again. “But this was your last year before… you know,” _Moving._ He doesn’t want to say it. Words had power, and saying it made it real.

“It’s only the Pacific ocean, Beomgyu-yah. What’s a little soup between friends?”

 _Friends_ stung, but it made him snort a little anyway. Yeonjun chuckled in victory and scooted the chair closer to the bed. Beomgyu let him peel back the covers, the fresh air cool on his flushed face. 

“Still sucks that we missed the fair,” Beomgyu said after a beat. “I was looking forward to it.”

“Skewers and balloon-dart?” Yeonjun scoffed. “You can do those any time. It’s nothing special, trust me. There’s always next year.” 

Beomgyu swallowed. His throat was scratchy, from the fever or something else. His heart felt like a caged hummingbird, beating fast, craving release. “I wanted to go with you, though,” he said quietly. With Yeonjun, It would’ve been special. 

Yeonjun went silent. Then, “You wanted to ride the ferris wheel, Beomgyu?” he said slowly, “With me?”

Beomgyu nodded; once, twice. The question was innocuous enough on its own, but he wanted to bury himself under the duvet again anyway. Ah, this really was terrible timing. This was what he got for being stupid and starry-eyed. The adults in his life always said he was prone to fits of imagination, and for once, Beomgyu didn’t have anything to say in defense. It wasn’t like anything was going to come of confessing, if this was even a confession. It wasn’t like—

Yeonjun leaned in and kissed him. 

  
  
  


It's all wrong.

Yeonjun clearly isn't used to angling up rather than down and Beomgyu goes in too fast, eager to be done with it all. Their mouths make an uncomfortable smacking sound, and it's hard to find any kind of rhythm. It's nothing like before. Or before. 

Yeonjun pulls away first.

"Did it work?" Beomgyu has his eyes clenched shut, too scared to check.

"Uh, no." says Yeonjun. His voice is hoarse, sounding like Beomgyu does in the morning, when he isn't quite awake yet. "You're still me."

There's silence for a second. "Beomgyu-yah," He starts slowly, and oh, Beomgyu just _hates_ that, how soft and uncertain he sounds. Snark and sharp edges, that's comfortable territory. Beomgyu doesn't know what to do with a Yeonjun that walks on eggshells. “I think we should start considering the possibility that we might be stuck this way for...” Yeonjun clears his throat, “a while.”

“A while," Beomgyu repeats, opening his eyes. He’s rooted in place, legs filled with lead. 

Yeonjun looks uncomfortable. “Like, forever.”

Beomgyu stares at him. Ridiculous. They hadn't even tried anything else besides a measly kiss. It was too early to be making assumptions like that. 

But that doesn't stop him from mulling it over anyway. He lays down on Yeonjun's bed, Klimt's cats mocking him from above. 

_Forever_. Living as Choi Yeonjun. He’d have to develop a taste for tomatoes and seafood, culture the appetite of a small elephant. He’d have to figure out how to talk with conviction, flirt without intent; memorize birthdays, interests, the likes and dislikes of every number on his phone, because Yeonjun made friends, not contacts. He might never see his parents, brother, or pet bird again, and god knows he’d have to learn how to dance, and _fast_. 

Or perhaps not. They could just tell everyone about this strange, unexplainable thing that had happened to them. Because of their popularity on the internet, their story might spread wider than most. People would whisper, come up with unflattering theories, but for all his friendly acquaintances, Beomgyu has few real friends (he hasn’t exchanged more than pleasantries with Ryujin or Jaeyun in years, and defaults reunion invites to his spam folder with ease). He knows the people he cares about — Soobin — would take it in stride. 

Science and psychics would likely spend months picking their case apart. His eomma was coming up on fifty — she might have another stroke, hearing what had happened to her little boy, but she’d recover. With time, they would _all_ recover; adjust and accept it for what it was. Beomgyu could wake up every morning and brush Yeonjun’s teeth and Yeonjun’s hair, wear his clothes, shield his eyes from the sun. Someday, he would come to think of them not as Yeonjun’s, but his own. 

And someday, Beomgyu might be able to look at a mirror and recognize the reflection to be himself; not a beautiful boy that broke his heart.

“No,” he says, without room for debate. “We’re changing back, no matter what.”

**Author's Note:**

> so Obviously, this hasn't been proofread but not to fear!!! i'm kicking my own ass as we speak. thanks for reading so far!! the title is standard mitski but was nearly something Way more stupid
> 
> come say hello on [twt](https://twitter.com/yeonbinned/status/1333950494893502465?s=19) :3


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